


treacle

by spookykingdomstarlight



Category: Star Trek: Mirror Universe, Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Friendship/Love, Love Confessions, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Mirror Universe, Trick or Treat: Chocolate Box, Vulcan Kisses
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-31
Updated: 2017-10-31
Packaged: 2019-01-21 05:35:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,775
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12450681
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spookykingdomstarlight/pseuds/spookykingdomstarlight
Summary: “My apologies, Doctor,” Spock replied, even-toned. “It seems you may need to spend some time on the shooting range. You’ve entirely missed your target.”McCoy huffed. “I hit my target just fine, thank you very kindly. I wasn’t trying to hityou.”





	treacle

**Author's Note:**

  * For [CurareChai](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CurareChai/gifts).



McCoy didn’t often have the medbay to himself, too busy cleaning up other people’s messes to do the research that had gotten him trapped on this god-forsaken ship in the first place, so when he did, he took advantage of it. If he was honest, quiet days like today were just about the only thing that made it worth sticking around given how much of a vile bastard the captain was and how obnoxious he found the rest of the crew, what with their scurrying around killing and maiming one another. A bunch of animals, the lot of them, and not a lick of sense in their head. No amount of bullying, yelling, or making them bleed a little worse got the message through.

Don’t bother Doctor McCoy with anything less than an absolute, immediate, unavoidable emergency and Lord help you if you were beyond saving by the time he got there. Rules number one and two of the medbay that everyone forgot. They all thought they were special, that McCoy would happily work to save their sorry lives even if he was never happy having to save anyone’s life ever.

Even M’Benga and Chapel couldn’t keep up with all the idiots, though they tried, jockeying them to other parts of the medbay while McCoy ignored the screams. Of course, they were also only trying to lull McCoy in with a false sense of reassurance that they were competent and not at all likely to try poisoning him when he wasn’t looking, but since they weren’t very good at hiding that fact, he let it slide. If and when they made their move, he’d teach them the lesson they’d been needing for a long time, which was this: keep the hunger in your eyes to a minimum. It’ll give you away every damned time.

That was why he liked Spock so much. Spock was a sensible man. Vulcan. Man.

Whatever.

The point was, he didn’t darken McCoy’s doorstep with every sliver, knife wound, and strangulation he faced—not that he faced any, of course. He didn’t torture the crew unnecessarily, thus also unnecessarily adding to McCoy’s workload. Hell, he’d never in his life thought McCoy was worth bothering nine days out of ten. Compared to everyone else, he was practically restful. And he didn’t make a point of trying to take McCoy’s job from him. Another plus.

Why he was thinking of Spock was… something else entirely.

Which was why, when the door to McCoy’s private laboratory slide open, quiet though it was, McCoy already had a handful of choice words in his mouth, annoyed at being disrupted with his mind in the clouds. Spitting them out, he brandished the phaser he always kept within arm’s reach and popped off a warning shot into the wall. The scorch mark it left behind could be scrubbed away, but the reminder that McCoy was every bit as dangerous and ruthless as them—unusual for a man of medicine, even in these strange times—would never leave his—

“Spock?!” he said, holstering the weapon again. He fought the flush that rose on his cheeks, especially upon witnessing the placid, elegant arch of his eyebrow high on his forehead as he registered what had happened. “What the hell are you doing here?”

In all the years they’d worked together, he’d never once abused his position to get in here. Only the captain had ever done it and only then because he’d been too embarrassed that Chekov had thought to get smart with him and actually managed to accomplish it somewhat. Silly, of course, and pointless, but a dangerous lesson for any of the lesser crew members to heed. That time, McCoy had shot at the wall, too, and for his trouble, Kirk had laughed in his face instead of having him executed.

McCoy supposed that made them friends.

He hated having friends. Especially ones in such high places as the captain believed himself to be. That kind of self-importance made them suspicious. And that, in turn, made them dangerous.

He much preferred colleagues who kept their distance. They never worried you’d try to supplant them.

“My apologies, Doctor,” Spock replied, even-toned. “It seems you may need to spend some time on the shooting range. You’ve entirely missed your target.”

McCoy huffed. “I hit my target just fine, thank you very kindly. I wasn’t trying to hit _you_.”

“Ah.” Spock’s hands clasped together in what might have been, if he were fully human, embarrassment, a sensation, McCoy was assured, Vulcans never, ever felt, not even half-Vulcans. “A deterrent. I see.”

Now, McCoy rolled his eyes. “Yes, it’s exactly that. A deterrent,” he drawled. “You’re wasting my time.”

Nodding, Spock spent a moment digesting this new information. Apropos of nothing, he said, “I’m of the understanding that you’ve rendered discreet medical assistance to the captain in the past.”

“Yes, that is, generally speaking, the ship’s doctor’s job, much as I would prefer it to be otherwise.” He was a researcher, damn it. Healing people was a sucker’s game. “Though our definitions of discreet must be different if you insist on talking about my work with our dear captain.”

Spock frowned and that was interesting for a number of reasons, but before McCoy could articulate even one of them, Spock stumbled slightly and winced and it all made sense without a further word from Spock at all.

“Holy hell.” McCoy strode forward, reaching for Spock and steadying him in turns as he dragged him toward the single biobed he kept here. He didn’t have it in him to grouse that he should’ve taken this up with M’Benga—he was the Vulcan expert, after all, not McCoy—and as he deposited Spock on the thing, urging Spock back with a hand on his shoulder, he crouched to grab the tricorder and hypospray kit he kept stowed beneath the biobed. “Who decided to come after you?”

He expected Spock to say Uhura or Chekov or even Sulu, but he just frowned harder and said, “A new recruit.”

“And they got the jump on you?” Unbelievable.

“It was luck and nothing more, Doctor, I can assure you on that account.”

Unsure if he should be impressed by this recruit’s luck or concerned, he dragged the tricorder through the air above Spock’s body. Poison. A shallow cut across the belly that didn’t require any tending from McCoy to cure. Unimaginative. McCoy chose to roll his eyes and side with Spock on this one. Dropping the tricorder, he picked up the hypo and fiddled with the various vials until he found the one he was looking for and snapped it into the unit. “Did you leave a drooling mess for my staff to take care of?”

Spock’s eyes searched McCoy’s face. If McCoy had to put a name to it, he might’ve called it curiosity. Then, they flattened and took on a grimmer aspect. “In fact, I did not.”

McCoy supposed that answered that question. Perhaps he should thank Spock. It wasn’t medical’s responsibility to handle disposal, thank all the regulations in Starfleet, so McCoy could look the other way and gladly would. In fact, Spock had probably saved McCoy a lot of trouble down the line. Clearly that individual was unhinged and would only have made more of a ruckus in the long run. Without so much as permission, McCoy stabbed Spock in the neck with the hypo, flooding Spock’s system with a universal antidote good for most humanoid species. Wonderful invention. McCoy only imagined what else he could accomplish if given half the opportunity to work rather than patch up every fool who managed to get themselves hurt instead of going about their own business and doing the job they’d trained in the Academy to do.

Sighing, relieved, Spock nodded. “Thank you, Doctor.”

“Yeah, yeah,” McCoy answered, distinctly uncomfortable with the sound of gratitude. Even if McCoy might not have liked it, this was his job. As much as he might complain, he didn’t expect anyone to acknowledge it. Clearing his throat, he stowed his gear and looked away. “I guess now you owe me one.”

When McCoy stood, Spock reached for him, grabbing him tight by the wrist. McCoy didn’t gasp and he didn’t flinch, though both of those instincts were hard-coded into him, but he did stare wide-eyed in shock. Vulcans did not touch other people, not willingly, and certainly not Spock. From everything he heard, it was as good as being kissed rather more thoroughly than propriety allowed for, a touch like this. Did he know that McCoy knew that?

“Spock, it’s not that I’m not flattered,” he joked, trying to break the tension that had settled in his own gut. Sure, he might’ve liked the man, but this was a bit much, wasn’t it?

“Doctor, I have never found the possibility of being in your debt particularly abhorrent.” His gaze turned to his own hand wrapped around McCoy’s wrist. “For some time, I’ve valued the relationship between us as one of relaxation and relief from the concerns I must keep at the forefront of my mind with everyone else on this crew. Were I not certain of your heritage and temperament, I’d wonder if you were not Vulcan.” Pushing himself up with his other hand, he swung his legs over the end of the bed.

“Now, Spock,” McCoy said, well beyond flustered and into downright touched territory, frightening in ways McCoy couldn’t even begin to catalog, “is that your way of telling me you like me?”

Spock cocked his head to the side slightly. “I suppose it is,” he answered, “if I must classify it by such an inelegant measure.”

A rather embarrassing lump formed in McCoy’s throat. He wasn’t used to kindnesses, not aboard the _ISS Enterprise_ , not anywhere in the Terran Empire. And he wasn’t used to touches that were more than professional. Even something as small as this… it left McCoy stunned and uncertain. Leave it to Spock to throw him for a loop. Again and again, he surprised McCoy and this time was no different. “Well, shit,” he said, ‘inelegant’ even my McCoy’s measure, but instead of backing away and putting this whole event behind him, he twisted his hand just so and clasped Spock’s hand in turn, making a greenish tint appear on his cheeks.

He would consider that a win, if ever there could be one in a quadrant as brutal as this one.

Not many people knew how to leave Spock speechless. That was an unexpected honor. And one he was perfectly willing to protect now that he’d unlocked the skill to do so.


End file.
